I Know This Much Is True (59 page)

“No shit.
Think
about it. We worked with the guy all summer long and we didn’t even know until tonight that he lives over at Dell’s. That he’s a fucking fruitcake. How do we know he’s
not
a dealer?”

“Who’s Roland?” I said. “Where’d Roland come from?”

“Roland? Roland’s nobody. Roland’s my great-uncle from New Rochelle. I was just giving them a false lead.”

“Yeah, and it’s probably going to backfire in your stupid face, too.

In
both
our faces since I—”

“Since you what?”

“Since I covered for you, asshole. Since I said I
might
have heard Ralph say something about this imaginary pusher friend of his. Said he
might
have been interested in having us sell for him.”

“Oh, so you ain’t Saint Dominick after all, huh? You bagged Ralph, too.”

“Because you’d backed me into a corner, that’s why. What the I Know[340-525] 7/24/02 12:56 PM Page 392

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fuck was I supposed to do—tell the truth and let the cops nail you for possession
and
false information? I guess I just don’t know how to play bag-a-buddy as good as you do, Leo. Shit, man, you’re the big pro at that. You could give
Judas
a few pointers.”

He spat out the window. Turned back to me. “Hey, maybe Ralph’s
your
buddy, Birdsey. Maybe he’s
your
big pal. But to me he’s just some guy I worked with. Smoked a few jays with. Because, personally, I don’t hang around with fags. Okay?”

“No? How about that drama teacher of yours? That guy you made out with?”

“Fuck you, Birdsey! I didn’t ‘make out’ with anyone. Besides, I told you that in
confidence.
You just shut your mouth about that.”

“What do you have to do to get the lead, Leo—to play Hamlet in that play this semester? You got to let this guy fuck you in the ass or something? Or is that already a done deal? Are you
already
the fuckin’ prince of Denmark?”

“Shut up, Birdsey. You better shut your fucking mouth before you’re sorry.”

“Oh, big man. You don’t like it, do you? When someone makes up shit about
you
? Asshole!”

“Don’t call
me
an asshole, Birdsey.
You’re
the asshole!”

“Yeah, and you’re a fucking liar! You’re a fucking snake in the grass!” I grabbed his box of eight-tracks, threw the whole bunch of them out the window.

He slammed on the brakes. Shoved me against the car door. I shoved him back.

“What are you,
nuts
? You turning mental like that mental case brother of yours?”

I was on him instantly—choking him, letting my fist fly. I grabbed his head in both hands—was ready to smash it into the steering wheel. Knock his teeth out. Bust his nose.

“Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop it, Dominick! What’s the
matter
with you?”

It was the fear in his voice that stopped me—the way he suddenly sounded like Dessa out in the parking lot the night before. I saw blood I Know[340-525] 7/24/02 12:56 PM Page 393

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dripping from his nose. Saw my raised fist opening, closing, opening.

“Don’t you
ever
. . . !” I was out of breath. My heart was pounding so hard, it hurt. “Don’t you
ever
call
me
crazy. Me
or
him, understand?
Understand?
”

“Okay. All right. Jesus.”

I got out. Slammed the car door hard as I could and started walking, kicking his eight-tracks out of my way. When I turned back at about fifty yards, he was out of the car, bending over to pick up his tapes. I grabbed a rock and chucked it at his stupid Skylark. It rang out as it hit the bumper. “You dent this car, you’re paying for it!” he shouted back. “My tapes, too. I’m going to play every single one of ’em tomorrow, and whatever ones don’t play anymore, you’re paying for! I mean it!” I heard his door slam. Heard him peel out, drive off.

Fuck
him,
I thought. Asshole. Cool Jerk. Good riddance. . . .

I walked along the dark road, my head filling up with sounds and pictures of things I didn’t want to think about: Thomas, sobbing and yanking down his drawers for Dell. Dessa beneath me, crying, pushing me away. Balchunas’s big face. . . .

I walked for hours—for eight or nine miles. And by the time I reached Hollyhock Avenue, my arms and neck were scabby with mosquito bites. My feet burned like I’d been walking on hot coals.

I just stood there, looking up at our house—the house my grandfather had built. I couldn’t go in, no matter
how
exhausted I was.

Couldn’t bring myself to go up the front stairs, unlock the door, climb the inside stairs, go down the hall to mine and my brother’s room. Couldn’t go in there and see my sleeping brother. Something was wrong with him, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

I couldn’t do it.

So I kept walking. Up the rest of Hollyhock Hill, then out through the pine grove and down to the clearing, to Rosemark’s Pond.

You know what I did? I shucked off all my clothes, waded into the water, and swam. Swam until my limbs were numb, leaden.

Until they couldn’t kick or push aside any more water. I guess . . . I I Know[340-525] 7/24/02 12:56 PM Page 394

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guess I was trying to wash myself clean of everything: the stink of sweat and marijuana, the stink of what we’d done to Ralph—of what I’d done to Dessa out in that parking lot. What kind of a person
was
I? If my brother was cracking, maybe I’d helped cause it.

Ray wasn’t the only bully at our house. . . . Survival of the fittest, I thought: whack whoever’s vulnerable, show ’em who’s in charge.

It didn’t work, that swim. You can’t swim away your sins, I learned that much. I came out of the pond feeling just as dirty as when I’d gone in. I remember standing there on the shore, naked still, panting like a bastard. Just looking at my reflection in the water.

Not looking away. Not lying to myself for once in my life.

Facing what I really was.

“
And what was that?
”

“
What?
”

“
You said you stood there at the pond that morning and faced what
you really were. I’m wondering what that was. What was your conclusion?
”

“
My conclusion? That I was a son of a bitch.
”

“
Explain, please.
”

“
A bastard. A bully. I think it was the first time I’d actually ever
admitted it to myself. . . . At least that’s how I remember it, anyway. I
never know, during these sessions, whether I’m rehashing history or reinventing it.
”

“
Well, yes, memory is selective, Dominick. An interpretation of the
facts as we recall them, accurate or not. But what we select to remember
can be very instructive. Don’t you think?
”

“
He works over there, you know. At Hatch.
”

“
Who?
”

“
Ralph Drinkwater. He’s on the maintenance staff.
”

“
Is he?
”

“
I’ve run into him down there. The night Thomas was admitted. He
had an accident, pissed himself. And guess who shows up with the mop?
”

“
How did you feel when you saw Ralph?
”

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“
How did I
feel
? Oh, I guess I felt . . . like a good, red-blooded
American.
”

“
Yes? Explain, please.
”

“
Keep them damn minorities down, boys. Put ’em on the cleanup
crew. Survival of the fittest.
”

“
You’re being ironic, yes?
”

“
You know much about American history, Doc? What we did to the
Indians? The slaves?
”

“
I’m afraid I’m not grasping your point, Dominick.
”

“
My point is: who the hell do you
think
those three white cops were
going to believe that night—a couple of white kids or the dope-peddling
black Indian? The radical queer? I mean, you got to hand it to Leo. It
was a little over the top, maybe, but it worked. Right? I mean, stoned or
not, it was a brilliant defense.
”

“
And so, when you saw Ralph here at Hatch, you felt . . . ?
”

“
I don’t know. There was a lot going on that night. . . . I felt bad, I
guess.
”

“
Can you be more specific, please? What does ‘bad’ mean?
”

“
Guilty. I felt guilty as sin. . . . We just fed him to the cops.
”

“
Ah. Interesting.
”

“
What is?
”

“
That’s the second time you’ve used that word today.
”

“
What word? ‘Guilty’?
”

“
‘Sin.’
”

“
Yeah? So?
”

“
Do you recall the context of your other reference to sin?
”

“
No.
”

“
You said that when you emerged from the pond, you realized that one
cannot swim away from one’s sins.
”

“
Yeah? And?
”

“
I merely note that you described your swim almost as an attempt at
purification. And now, this second reference to guilt and sin. I’m just
struck by your religious—
”

“
It’s just a figure of speech. ‘Guilty of sin’: people say it all the time.
”

“
Are you angry?
”

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“
No, I just . . . I think you’re confusing me with the
other
Birdsey
brother.
”

“
No, no. I assure you. I know the difference between—
”

“
Look, Ma! Two hands!
”

“
Dominick, sit down, please.
”

“
I don’t want to sit down! I just . . . You know something? Let me
clue you in to something. When you go to lift your kid—your beautiful little baby girl—out of the bassinet some morning and . . . and she’s . . .

Well, never mind. Just don’t start confusing me with my one-handed
Holy-Roller brother. I don’t
do
religion, okay? I gave up on God a long
time ago. . . . I was just some stupid, mixed-up kid up there at that pond
that morning. I was hot and tired and . . .
”

“
Take my hands, please, Dominick. That’s it
.
Now, look at me. That’s
right. Good. I want to assure you, my friend, that I do not confuse you
and your brother. I am quite aware of the distinctions between you. All
right?
”

“
I—
”

“
I only ask this: that, during this process, you try not to disown your
insights.
”

“
My insights? Have I had any insights yet?
”

“
Yes! And more will come in time. Be patient, Dominick. They’re
coming. Do you, by any chance, know who Bhagirath was? In Hindu
legend?
”

“
Who?
”

“
Bhagirath. He brought the Ganges from heaven to earth.
”

“
Yeah? Neat trick. What was he—a civil engineer?
”

“
Of sorts, I suppose. You see, Bhagirath had a mission. He needed to
cleanse the honor of his ancestors because they had been cursed. Burned to
cinders. So he routed the river from the feet of Brahma, the Creator,
through the tangled locks of Shiva, the Destroyer, and thus to earth. It
was his gift. The holy river. And that is why orthodox Hindus bathe
there: to cleanse themselves of their imperfections. To wash away their
ancestors’ sins.
”

“
Uh-huh.
”

“
Keep thinking back, Dominick. Keep remembering.
”

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“
I just . . . It’s painful. I don’t see the point.
”

“
The point is this: that the stream of memory may lead you to the
river of understanding. And understanding, in turn, may be a tributary
to the river of forgiveness. Perhaps, Dominick, you have yet to emerge
fully from the pond where you swam that morning so long ago. And perhaps, when you do, you will no longer look into the water and see the
reflection of a son of a bitch.
”

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24

f

1969–1970

The next day, Dessa and I drove out to the Falls to talk. We made up. Made love.

On Monday morning, I quit the Public Works so I wouldn’t have to face Ralph. Walked into Lou Clukey’s office and told him I needed to leave earlier than I’d figured because of school. Leo had quit, too, Lou said. At least I’d come in and told him in person. On the way out of the yard, I ran right into Ralph. He acted embarrassed, not angry. If the cops were going to haul him in for questioning, they hadn’t done it yet.